


Half Way

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 04:46:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/794106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angsty Jim and then, y'know, somewhat less angsty Jim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Half Way

**Author's Note:**

> To my Dear Virginia, on her birthday (the details of which are not to be revealed ;-] )

## Half Way

by Fortuita James

Author's webpage: <http://www.geocities.com/TelevisionCity/Stage/2326/>

Author's disclaimer: J and B are not mine. Duh. And there are four lines in there, not part of the narrative, which don't belong to me either. They belong to Ben Lee. I accept that. I'm a big girl.

* * *

Half Way  
By Fortuita James 

Everything but love
    
    
            It must feel good to stand above me
            While I make you so proud of me
    

I recognise this restless feeling. Feels like we didn't catch the bad guy this time. 

The problem is, when I think that, it only makes it worse. He thinks it's right when I catch the bad guy. Right, and only to be expected. And that's the way he thinks of it. That I catch the bad guys, and he's pleased. He's proud of me, of what I can do. Me, I'm glad I can do it. It's not the same thing. 

Pride, I can recognise. Pride and pleasure. Trained me up good, massah. That isn't fair, however, and I don't like myself for thinking it. Can't even take refuge in that kind of sniping in the privacy of my own brain. Gratitude batters it down. I can't resent him for anything; I'm not allowed. Or rather, I don't allow myself, because neither one of us deserves it. 

Petty quibbles are the only things I can find, the only things I can give myself to build a wall with. Petty quibbles and the outside world. The world I know, the one we mostly live in, that world has rules. There are lines of camaraderie, easy patterns of jocularity, the conversation of shared experience. These are the things I place between us, hoping that I won't feel quite so keenly what really lies between us. Nothing I put there. Just...space. 

In his world, there isn't enough room for a 'we'. Or at least, I can't find one, and I can't imagine what that we would be. Which is fair, I know. I've taken so much from him, so much that he has willingly given me. I can't expect him to change that too. But I can, and that scares me, which is why I won't. That he gives me so much, would give me almost anything, and I couldn't possibly ask for what I really want, because I know it pushes past that last fraction of space. Love. That would come from a part of him that I can't reach, that I can't request, and that he can't change for me, no matter how hard he might try. 

I touch him, and there's more of that pleasure. I bring him pleasure, as easily or as hardly as I bring justice. So much pleasure, though less pride. He doesn't know, you see, that this skill, this too is down to him. That I have this ability to feel, to send my fingers wandering over his body, my tongue, that I know just the way to move under him when he reciprocates, he doesn't know it only works with him. I'm sure he'd be proud, pleased by our connection. Intrigued, perhaps. And oh, so sensitive to the possibilities for pain, for mishap, for disaster. And I know he'd be completely blind to the pain already there. 

He's not here right now, of course. This melancholy I reserve for my time alone. It lies in the wasteland off the established path of our relationship. He's too busy looking where we're going to see this particular set of scenery. 

I'm sitting in the dark. Coal, to his eyes. Only dimness to mine. I know if he came home I could pass it off. These senses give me endless excuses, explanations and partial truths. 

But even though I can see the walls, see the shapes around me, and I wouldn't fall if I walked, I don't kid myself that I can see what's between us any more clearly than he can. That's just another of those partial truths; a hope to which I cling to keep my thoughts away from the possible iceberg we're sailing right towards. 

I recognise this restless feeling. I know I didn't catch the good guy that time. 

He looked up and caught the desire I'd tried so hard to hide. But he didn't see that effort; didn't see the endurance, just a moment of desire. A revelation, for him. A desperate intermingled joy and pain for me when he came into my arms as if he had always belonged there. Which I, of course, felt like he had. 

But it was beautiful, and the sorrow only started to outweigh the joy when he left my arms just as easily. Humming, he was, walking down the stairs. 

The stairs became just another shape in the background for him. They no longer represented any kind of barrier. I'd invited him in, and he was happy to explore as much of me as I'd let him. Happy to spend the time, invest the effort and receive his due rewards. 

I'm backing away and he's approaching. I'm not running because I don't want him near - quite the contrary. But I need him to choose, and I can't see the decision going in my favour. 

I've run out of physical space. I've almost run out of time. There's nothing left to throw between us; he just pushes and pushes, blithely unaware of what he'll find. 

Crossing the gap
    
    
            And I want a TV embrace
            And I, I'm getting off this boiling plate
    

We're together again, and he looks up and catches the anguish I've tried so hard to hide. It's out of place here, in the shadowed warmths between our bodies. It is unexpected, and to him, wholly unacceptable. 

The knowledge in his eyes signals a cessation of our passion. What I don't know, what I need to know, is whether it signals the end or merely an interval. That depends on how deep his newfound knowledge runs. 

He detaches himself from me. Almost every millimetre of his skin slips from mine, and I can't move or respond. Almost every millimetre. His calf rubs against mine as he sits, elbows on his knees. It's as if he knows that, although I can see him, I need contact to be sure he's still here. 

I'm waiting for a gentle question, the subtle probe as he pulls away my last defence. It doesn't come. He's looking at me with grave eyes. He's silent, and I imagine that he must be forcing himself to sit so still. 

The silence continues for so long with only that tiny point of contact between us that I feel forced to speak. 

"What is it?" Obliviousness is usually a good choice, but he just raises an eyebrow. 

I try again. "You not in the mood?" 

He gifts me with a slanted look, and the tiniest hint of a smile, which disappears all too quickly. "You know that's not an issue." 

"Really." It is not a question, but I do have doubts. "I invited you up." Oblique, but if he's anything, he's perceptive. 

He looks worried for the first time. Before, it was just curiosity. "It's not an issue," he tells me firmly, and I have to believe him, but that's only the beginning of what I know I finally have to say. 

"What is?" 

"You want to be here." He nods decisively. "Why?" And that is as far as I can go. My guts are roiling, and I can't quite look him in the eye, but I sense the almost leer and its forcible repression. 

"There's nowhere else I want to be, Jim." There's a blank honesty in his voice that forces me to look at him. "Nowhere." 

"And...later?" 

He shifts forward, his leg sliding a little against mine. "There might be places I'll have to be, but nowhere else I want to be. You want me here..." He draws in a breath, and for the first time, Jim detects a trace of Blair's own uncertainty, the uncertainty that probably pushes him down those stairs every time. "You want me here, you got me." 

"I want you here. So much, Blair." 

He slips back over me, smile as brilliant as sea-washed sand, and I know I can wake up to that same smile in the morning. 

This is what I was waiting for, but never believed would come. 

The End 

Lyrics to "Cigarettes Will Kill You" copyright Ben Lee 


End file.
